


His Son's Father

by eeyore9990



Series: 30 Thankful Days [18]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was the Beacon County Sheriff, John Stilinski was Stiles’ father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Son's Father

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thraceadams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thraceadams/gifts).



> 30 Thankful Days, Day 18: Gift for Thraceadams. Happy birthday, bb!!

When people look at John, they see the uniform, the badge, the gun on his hip. They see the thousand-yard stare and the big, capable hands that can stroke the hair off a dying vic’s head, helping them in those final moments with all he has – his humanity. Those same hands that can turn rough and hard in defense of his town. 

They see the Sheriff and forget… 

Before all this, before the trappings of his job, he was Stiles’ father first. 

– 

“What’s wrong?” John asked, leveling a look at his son. His son who was fidgeting and red in the face. Whose brow was crinkled like he was angry, but whose eyes betrayed that the anger was at himself. 

“Nothing! It’s just…” Stiles’ mouth dropped open, but his tongue stilled and his voice fell away. 

John wasn’t stupid enough to settle back and wait. Waiting only gave Stiles time to think up a better story. “School, work, or pack?” 

Deflating, Stiles scrubbed at his forehead, avoiding John’s stare as he mumbled, “Pack.” 

“Is it life or death?” 

“No! Yes? I just… Dad, he keeps–” Stiles flung his hands around him, indignation lighting up the eyes that still hurt a little for how much they were _Claudia_ ’s. The kid himself was a good mix of them both, enough that John didn’t see her in his every feature, but those eyes… Yeah. 

And right now those eyes were snapping, sparking, _angry_ and proud and scared. 

“What did Hale do this time?” John settled in; this could take a while. There was little more in life that could get Stiles riled up like Derek Hale and vice versa. It would be sweet if the two idiots weren’t so dead set on ignoring their feelings for each other. 

“Nothing!” Stiles burst out, slapping the table. “He just stood there, like a gigantic idiot, and let it _hit him_.” 

“And then what did you do?” 

“I…” Stiles bit his lips closed, that angry-pained-frustrated look back on his face. He flattened his fingers to the table and pressed down until his nail beds were white. “I said… and then he looked like… God, Dad.” 

John didn’t need to know what Stiles had said. He’d known the kid since his conception, after all. He _knew_ how cruel and thoughtless Stiles’ mouth could be, how it moved about a second ahead of his brain. He also knew that Stiles would cut himself up over whatever he’d said more than anyone else ever could. 

If a soul truly wanted to torture his kid, all they had to do was leave him alone with his own mind. 

“Well then, I guess I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

Stiles looked up, confused right out of his own inner turmoil. “Huh?” 

“After you go apologize. Pick up some subs on the way home; I’m in a footlong meatball kind of mood.” Nodding to himself, John sauntered down the hallway, already tasting the barbeque-y goodness in his mouth. 

“Six inch vegetarian!” Stiles called after him. 

“You forget the meatballs, I’ll forget the wifi password after I change it tonight.” He heard the thump of Stiles’ head hitting the table and a low “dammit” and grinned. 

– 

John steered his cruiser slowly through the streets, letting his eyes slide left to right as the lazy day of patrolling began to wind down. But just as he was considering taking a left at the market up ahead, he saw it. 

Derek Hale’s Camaro in the parking lot, two bodies pressed up against it. 

Foot automatically hitting the brake, John reached for the switch to blip his siren only to draw back his hand when he saw that it was _his_ kid pushing _Derek Hale_ up against the side of his own vehicle, Stiles’ face blotchy with emotion as he gave Derek what appeared to be a heated talking-to. 

John watched avidly, grabbing his phone and only glancing down long enough to make sure he was calling Melissa. 

_“Hey John, what’s up?”_

John could feel the smile curving his lips even as he ignored the way his heart ticked over a little harder at the sound of her voice. “Think you’re about to owe me that dinner, Mel.” 

_“Bullshit,”_ Melissa breathed, and he could hear her walking through her house before there was the sound of a door closing. _“Tell me everything, goddammit. And John, I want_ details _.”_

“Stiles is pushing Derek up against his car. Their faces are about…” John waggled his hand back and forth, realized she couldn’t see that, and said, “A couple inches apart? And Derek is _letting him_.” 

_“Of course he’s letting him.”_ There was a sigh, and then, _“I thought you had something more than that. Like we haven’t_ all _seen them pushing each other into things and getting in each other’s faces. It’s ridiculous.”_

“But isn’t it usually Derek pushing Stiles around?” John fought to bring up a decent memory, but found he couldn’t. 

_“Eh, it’s about fifty-fifty. Stiles is a lot rougher about it than Derek is, which makes us all hope, but–”_

“Dammit,” John hissed, cutting through Melissa’s voice, when Stiles shoved at Derek, pushing himself back and away and stomped off. “What the hell are you doing, kid? Get back there. Go after him, Derek.” 

_“Say it louder, why don’t you?”_ Melissa’s tone was dry when she added, _“If Derek hears you, you forfeit your winnings.”_

John winced and depressed the button to roll up his window as he lightly assured her, “I’m far enough away. Plus, he was completely focused on Stiles.” 

_“Yeah? What’s new?”_

Watching for a few minutes longer, John eventually sighed and gave up, swinging his car back around to head toward the station. Dejected at his own son’s utter failings, he invited Melissa to a movie before hanging up with her. 

At least one of the Stilinski men could have something good. 

– 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, get in here, holy shit, that–” 

John startled, jerking upright in his arm chair as Stiles and Derek tumbled into the house, Stiles slamming the door a little too hard behind them. 

“Oh my god, man, your _chest_ ,” Stiles babbled, and even from the darkness of the living room, John could see how wide and frightened his eyes were. “Okay, okay, just… C'mere. Take that off. Off, Derek, take it _off_ before it gets caught in the skin and heals like– Jesus! Fine, I’ll–” 

As John watched, worried but not wanting to draw attention to himself for fear he’d end up having to replace a front door when his son flailed through it, Stiles gently eased Derek’s jacket off and then the shirt under it for good measure. Leaving Derek Hale standing shirtless in his front entryway. 

John wasn’t a man easily given to feelings of inadequacy, but he couldn’t help looking down at his own chest with a sense of wounded dignity at the sight of all… _that._ Even with strips torn from it, Derek Hale’s chest was worthy of envy. 

“It’s not healing,” Stiles muttered and then, louder, “why isn’t it healing?” 

“Alpha claws, Stiles. You know this.” 

“God, Derek.” John watched Stiles drop his forehead to Derek’s wide shoulder. “I mean… Fuck. I’m going to go get the first aid kit. This is ridiculous.” Stiles turned and stomped toward the hallway bathroom, returning in seconds to shake the bulky plastic kit in Derek’s face. “Ridiculous!” 

“Stiles–” 

“No!” Stiles shouted, angry enough that his voice was shaking. Or maybe just _worried_ enough. He wet a wadded-up length of gauze with disinfectant and began gently, so gently, cleaning one of the long, bloody gashes. “You don’t get to ‘Stiles’ me like that. I’m not the one running in front of claws and basically impaling myself on them!” His tone got a little screechy at the end, but John noticed how very careful his touches were. No flailing or stumbling. No hard pressure or careless swipes. 

John swallowed, looking away. It was too naked, the emotion behind those touches. Too raw. 

“Stiles, look at me.” 

Derek’s voice was light, as always, and filled with a warmth that made John want to reach for the light, or cough, or otherwise give himself away. But he stayed quiet and watched because how could he not? How could he turn away from these boys now? Their love – and oh, for all that they bickered and fought, it was _love_ – deserved a witness. 

Stiles lifted his chin, and from here, John could see how wet his eyes were. “He hurt you,” he whispered. 

“He would have hurt you worse. I couldn’t–” 

“You should have let me–” 

“Stiles–” 

John’s fingers curled into fists that he double-pumped gleefully when they finally, _finally_ , shut each other up with a kiss that nearly set the drapes on fire. But for all the heat in it, it was soft. It was hands cupping jaws and little broken noises and Stiles keeping himself away from Derek’s slowly healing chest. 

They finally broke apart, whispered words lost between them as they leaned their foreheads together. It was a moment just for them; not even John was invited. 

Stiles eventually pulled away, his fingers threading through Derek’s and tugging, urging him toward the stairs so he could “sleep it off.” Before they disappeared from sight, Derek looked over, the light catching his eyes as they locked on John’s, a question in them. 

Or maybe a statement. John couldn’t yet read this kid from fifty paces. But John nodded anyway, offering Derek a half-smile when his scruffy chin dipped in acknowledgement. 

When their footsteps stopped, when all he heard was the occasional creak of a bedspring – not enough for _that_ , thankfully – John got up and locked the doors, turned off the lights. He pulled his phone out, his thumb hovering over Melissa’s name. 

Then he slipped it back in his pocket. He’d wait. Let her win. He got dinner with a beautiful woman regardless; maybe they’d both win. 

It wasn’t really about them, anyway. 

As he passed Stiles’ open door, he peeked in, saw his son looking at him with Claudia’s eyes, saw the question in them. He smiled, a proud one. Let his son see it. 

Turning away was bittersweet. 

He was John Stilinski. He was Stiles’ father, first and foremost. 

And his son was all grown up. 


End file.
